


Razor's Edge

by mew_poo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Drug Use, Facial Shaving, Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, I like to call this a little game called Spot That Seb!, M/M, Universe Alteration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-08-24 16:07:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16643438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mew_poo/pseuds/mew_poo
Summary: Old games had come to a close. They were won, they were lost, and they were over. He had become so preoccupied playing those concluded games, that he nearly failed to see the new board being set right under his nose. But now he had his pieces, he knew his strategy, and most importantly, he knew his opponent. The game was on.





	Razor's Edge

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheLionAndTheEagle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLionAndTheEagle/gifts).



“I’m giving you a case, Sherlock. When I’m gone, if I’m… gone… I need you to do something for me. Save John Watson. Save him, Sherlock. Save him.” 

A strangled sigh escaped his throat. 

_ Save him. Save John. But how? _

“You can’t save John because he won’t  _ let _ you. He won’t allow himself to be saved. The only way to save John ... is to make him save  _ you _ .”

_ Make him save me… I don’t, I don’t know how. I don’t... understand. _

A silver-handled knife sunk deep into the wood of the mantle. Sherlock sucked in his breath, releasing the handle with an aggravated flick of his fingers. He ran his hand over his face, stubble scratching over the already raw skin of his palm. For a moment before he pulled his hand away from his face, the stench of his own breath nearly cause his stomach to turn. Nothing had been the same since Mary passed. Sherlock had broken his promise, John left, and the world turned its back to him. The flat became messier, filling up with cold glass vials and syringes empty as the teacups that littered the tables. Bullet holes and knife marks littered the walls and fixtures of the main room, almost invisible among the pictures and papers, cases, notes, and scribbles strewn across the small space. A fine layer of dust covered nearly everything, including the chair which Sherlock sunk himself into. His fingertips dragged patterns through the particles, mindless swirls appearing on the armrest. His eyes wandered listlessly from corner to corner, blankly noting the shattered ceramic remains of Mrs. Hudson’s fine china kicked carelessly beneath the long curtains framing the window. 

He wished he could draw the curtains shut further, block out the light and noise of the world and finally have a moment to think without distraction. But he couldn’t. The curtains wouldn’t shut any further, the noise would never stop, and, GOD, if only he could stop itching. He ran his hand over his face again, long nails digging deep into the skin of his cheek, trying desperately to stop the incessant itching that plagued his body.  

“Stop,” he mumbled. He growled as his nails tore away at his face, voice increasing in volume until he was shouting into the emptiness of the house. “Stop, stop, stop, stop, STOP.”

His hand shot off the armrest and onto the table beside him. Books, papers, and a canister of pencils clattered to the floor in its wake. Sherlock pawed at the table frantically, eyes unseeing despite following the activity of his hand.  _ Where is it I know there was one here _ .

His fingers clasped around something small and made of plastic. It’s cap rattled quietly in Sherlock’s hand. He raised it to his face, closer, closer, until he could confirm its identity. A syringe. Already full. How convenient. 

Ripping the cap off with his teeth, he plunged the needle into his arm without pause. This was not the first time he had done this, and he doubted it would be his last. The sharp point bit his skin only momentarily before the liquid spilled out into his veins with practiced efficiency. He breathed in deep, feeling the effects of the drug beginning to wash over him. Tension melting away like ice cream on a hot day, the burning itch fading to nothing, heartbeat echoing in his ears as the warm rush clouded his brain. He was used to this. The fog would clear and so would everything else. Thoughts, ideas, pesky little feelings, they all would become clear as day. All he had to do was wait. 

“What a mess you are, Sherlock!”

_ That voice. What was that voice? _

“Not even greeting someone kind enough to pay you a visit! Oh pity me…”

_ No, not what. Who was that voice? _

“Come on now, Sherlock. Aren’t you going to say hello?” 

Fingers snapped close to his ear, and his eyes flew open. He hadn’t even realized he closed them. Blinking, he looked up, fighting through the haze that clouded his vision. Slowly, a face materialized from the fog. Smile stretching deviously across normally soft features. Moriarty. 

Jim waved his fingers in a flirtatious wave, “Did you miss me?”

Sherlock’s eyes went wide, breathing increasing until his chest was almost heaving with effort. His head felt slow, dizzy, unlike other times he’d shot up. And now, in his most vulnerable moments, Jim Moriarty was here. 

“Aww, look at you,” Jim lilted. “All flushed and helpless for me! Must be Christmas! I see your little pet isn’t around to keep things in order. Sad, really. He was always so useful, so easy to tease you with.” 

_ No, no, this isn’t happening, it can’t be! _ Sherlock thought, mind still reeling in shock.  _ Moriarty is dead. I’ve confirmed this time and time again, he’s dead! He’s not real anymore! I’m imagining things! He’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead! _

And yet the hand suddenly cupping his face felt so very real. 

“Ugh, what is this beard though?” Jim pushed Sherlock’s face away in disgust. Pacing around the chair Sherlock was seated in, he made his way over to the mantle. Ever so lightly, his fingers traced the cold silver handle of the knife stuck deep into the wood. “Tisk tisk,” he chided, “What temper, Sherlock. Temper, temper, temper.” Jim hung his head, shaking it in mock distress. 

Sherlock’s eyes followed as Jim took in the state of the room. He wanted to get up, to fight, to prove to himself that this was not real. But lead flowed in his veins, weighing him down so he could do nothing but sit and watch. 

“Do you really need me so desperately…” Jim began, voice soft and quiet, “So desperately that my absence turns you into such a mess.” He turned to face Sherlock, eyes reflecting something almost resembling pity before lighting back up and a renewed smile spreading across his face. 

Sherlock almost felt sick, seeing that smile. 

“Well, seeing as John is a bit hmm absent at the moment, allow me to take care of you!” 

This did nothing to aid the churning of his stomach. Instead, a pang of anxiety shot its way through his chest. 

“Now, now, I’m not going to hurt you.” Whether Jim realized his discomfort or it was said simply out of habit, Sherlock would never know. A small but powerful hand gripped his arm and dragged him off to the bathroom. 

The cold porcelain of the toilet seat seeped through his baggy sweatpants when he was pushed to sit down upon it. His brain still hadn’t caught up with his body, but he flinched in vague recognition when the strange sensation of soft bristles coated in cold foam danced across his cheek.

“What… are you d.. doing?” He managed to choke out. Sherlock blinked rapidly, trying acutely to process Jim’s actions. 

“What does it look like, silly?” Jim singsonged, “I’m helping you shave.” He smiled, then lowered his voice, whispering harshly in Sherlock’s ear as if telling him some terrible secret. “It really doesn’t suit you, you know.”

Jim withdrew and pulled a folded straight razor from his coat pocket. He flicked the blade open, turning the ornate ivory handle over and over in his hand. “Pretty, isn’t it? It was a gift from a dear friend of mine. He just loves to hunt, made the whole handle himself! Though I’m sure he wouldn’t mind me using it on you.”

Sherlock wanted to resist. The thought of Jim holding a blade so close to his throat while he was in such a state made him feel strangled, helpless.. 

He jerked back when the cold weight of the razor was pressed against his cheek. The blade slipped slightly, opening up a thin red line across Sherlock’s cheekbone. He heard Jim tisking above him. 

“Oh Sherlock.. Don’t make this more difficult than it has to be.” Jim grasped Sherlock’s chin, holding him firmly in place. He lifted the razor to Sherlock’s irritated flesh once more, and in a few swift strokes had rid the taller man of his unsightly facial hair. “There!” Jim said, clapping his hands lightly. “All better!” He set the razor on the edge of the sink and turned his back momentarily to Sherlock. Figuring now was as good a time as ever, Sherlock mustered his strength to his legs and pushed himself from the seat of the toilet. He intended to do something useful, he really did. Fight Moriarty, figure out the truth, at very least leave the bloody bathroom, but his legs betrayed him. Jim whipped around and caught him just before his forehead would have collided with the edge of the tub. 

“What did I tell you, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock wanted to spit at Jim, curse him for mocking him. But all he managed was a weak groan. He heard Jim chuckle, but it didn’t sound mirthful like it usually did. It sounded distant. Sad. For a moment, Sherlock almost felt guilty somehow. Like a child being scolded by their father. He must have been lost in thought, VERY lost in thought, because before he knew it, the splashing of warm water against his bare legs brought him back to the moment. He was sitting naked in the bathtub, rising water already filling past his thighs. Jim leaned over the side of the tub, washcloth in hand, testing the temperature of the water like a mother does bottled milk. 

“Wha- How did y-” If Sherlock wasn’t shocked before, he certainly was now. Somehow Jim had managed to get him undressed and into the tub, and Sherlock couldn’t even comprehend how any of that had taken place without him noticing. 

“You needed a bath,” Jim said, not bothering to look away from the faucet spitting steaming water into the tub. “You smelled worse than Tiger after a hunt.”

Sherlock was stunned. How on earth had any of this happened? This wasn’t real! Wasn’t supposed to be real! But somehow, as the water rose past his hips, everything felt very, very real. He was loath to admit it, but the warmness of the water and the surprisingly gentle strokes of the washcloth over his back, his head, his whole body felt so damn good. It had been a long time since he was clean, far too long. Thinking back on it, he suddenly couldn’t remember a time in his life when he felt truly clean. Not when he went out to play as a child, not when he was grown and striding down the streets of London, not when he shot up, and not when he had blood on his hands. Not until now, under the eyes and hands of his enemy, had he ever truly felt Clean. 

His eyes began to shut, a heavy feeling of sleepiness swirling together with the draining water. Strong arms, far stronger than he’d expect Jim’s to be, lifted him from the tub and a towel was placed gently upon his head. Warm hands rubbed circles on his scalp through the fabric, collecting the moisture from his hair and leaving it in damp ringlets framing his face. 

Once his skin no longer dripped with water, a shirt and loose fitting pants were dragged ever so carefully onto his body. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a stab of embarrassment coursed through him. He, Sherlock Holmes, being treated like a incapable child. Though at the same time, as he was lifted yet again and brought to sit in the same chair he began in, a larger part of him couldn’t care less. This wasn’t real anyways, might as well enjoy it. 

Sherlock opened his eyes sleepily as a cup of tea passed in front of his face. The smell of it, sweet and flowery, caused his head to nod lethargically. He looked over into Jim’s eyes, the man kneeling beside him, face close, with only his hand and the teacup between them. 

“Take a sip, Sherlock.” Although soft, so soft it could have been sensual, it was an order not a request. 

A dazed smile filled Sherlock’s features. He leaned forward as if to drink at Jim’s command, but fell to the side of it, and pressed a heavy kiss upon Jim’s cheek. Jim seemed taken aback, if only for a moment, before settling into a smile of his own. 

“So you did miss me.”

Sherlock hummed softly, and took the cup from Jim’s hand. He raised it to his lips, and swallowed the hot liquid down, never breaking eye contact with Jim all the while. 

The tea made him feel warm, impossibly warm. Hot mists filled his vision, taking over his head. The world around him felt dizzying, too fast and too slow all at once. He was tired. So tired. Everything felt heavy and hot, and as suddenly as Jim had come to him in this state, he was just as easily lost in the fog. He couldn’t see anything, didn’t know anything, but he could still hear. And he heard it plain as day. One last fleeting sentence. “Game on, Sherlock.”

 

“Good morning, Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson’s shrill voice echoed through the flat. Sherlock sat up painfully as the curtains were flung open and the light of day came pouring in. The house was spotless. No bottles, no vials, no scattered papers; even the shattered china by the curtain was missing. It was as though someone had gone through and deep cleaned, put everything in its place, and left no trace of the mess he remembered.

“Mrs. Hudson?” Sherlock called out, listening to her footsteps retreat into the kitchen. “Did you clean in here?” 

“A bit, dear!” She called back. “Not much though. You just left your razor out by the sink when you shaved last night. I put it up on the mantle.”

Sherlock’s eyes went wide again. He felt his face. Completely devoid of stubble.  _ That’s impossible… I didn’t… _ Sherlock’s brain fell silent. A thing he never thought would happen. _ I didn’t. But he did.  _

He lifted himself from the chair, legs wobbling beneath his weight. Stiffly, he made his way over to the mantle. The knife he stabbed into the wood still in the spot he left it. But next to it was a folded, ivory handled straight razor. He picked it up and turned it over in his hand. It was beautifully carved; looked to be made of an elephant’s tusk, and etched deep into the ivory was the image of a tiger, fangs bared and ready to pounce. 

Sherlock smiled and placed it back on the mantle. 

“Mrs. Hudson, I need to to help me with something! Remember the address I told you a few weeks ago? Get your car and I’ll be down in a moment.”

Old games had come to a close. They were won, they were lost, and they were over. He had become so preoccupied playing those concluded games, that he nearly failed to see the new board being set right under his nose. But now he had his pieces, he knew his strategy, and most importantly, he knew his opponent. The game was on. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not even in this fandom??? What am I doing..


End file.
